Oy. At least I had the good sense to call this juvenile collection of essays I wrote at 21 “a premature memoir.” Some essays I’d written for The Harvard Advocate and The Harvard Crimson had caught the eye of Sam Stewart, an alum then editing for Macmillan in New York. A tiny book contract ensued. It was 1970 and the mainstream media were looking to us Baby Boomers to explain “the counterculture” to the rest of America.
Political ideology was not my strong suit, so I poured into the pages of Me and My Friends all the anti-bourgeois cultural observations I had accumulated in my years as a son of the post-World War II suburban bourgeoisie. What can I say? It taught me I could complete a book-length project, and “my friends” tell me it’s a respectable and revealing “period piece.” I wouldn’t know, since I’ve always been afraid to open the book and glimpse that cocky but confused version of myself, still years away from any true consciousness.